Epilogue
IZZY
Six Months Later
On the doorstep, his chest is pressed to my back as he rubs his hardness against my denim covered bottom. Not satisfied that I’ve already dropped my house keys twice, he slides his hands around my front, slipping both into the waistband of my jeans.
‘My God, I fucking love maternity bands,’ he growls in my ear.
‘Greg.’ Key poised at the lock, I turn my head over my shoulder. ‘You really are a pervert.’
‘What’s not to love about open zippers and easy access?’ He dips his head to place a hot, wet kiss behind my ear.
‘And speaking of access, you seem to forget we’re not in Scotland anymore. I know it’s dark, but I still have neighbours to consider and my curtain twitching senses are tingling.’
‘We’d best give ’em a show, then.’
He turns me, taking my face in his hands as he kisses me so thoroughly, I feel like my blood pressure is acting up again. Pregnancy may be one of Mother Nature’s miracles—this one even more so, given that someone with Greg’s history has a one to four percent chance of conceiving naturally—but it’s also a big pain in the rear.Literally and figuratively. That was another pregnancy-related complaint, if you’re interested.
His lips are hot and his touch teasing as I find myself leaning into him as he pulls away, his gaze as sinful as molten, boozy chocolate.
‘How’s your curtain sensor now?’
I slide my gaze over his left shoulder. ‘I think Mrs Horowitz in number seventy-four has just swooned.’
‘So I make old ladies swoon but my fiancée frown?’ My heart does a little pitter-patter as it always does when he throws that word around. ‘Just what a man likes to hear.’
‘I’m not your fiancée—’
‘Not for the want of asking you,’ he complains.
‘Look, if we don’t get this door open soon, I’m going to pee on your feet.’
‘And you call me apervert,’ he says, taking the keys from my hand.
Pervert may not be the most pleasant of words, but I love the way he says it. Holy rollingr’sand extra syllables! And let me just confirm, the Scots accent definitely makes for an extremely dexterous tongue.
Inside, the place is much tidier than usual after Greg and I came to a compromise. I now open cupboards and shove things inside so at least there’s the illusion of order. We don’t actually live together just yet. I have my job here in London, and Greg has his business in Scotland, but we do try to be together as much as we can. It means we spend a lot of time in airports, trains, and cars, but we’re making it work.
We’re planning on giving birth here in London. And when I saywe,I meanme,though I know Greg would take the pain for me in a heartbeat if he could. Not that he needs to because I’m having an epidural anyway. We’ll move up to Scotland following for my six month’s maternity leave. We’re going to live together, and the prospect is exciting and terrifying in equal measure.
Cautious has been my guiding word these last few months, which is odd, I know. Pre-pregnancy I was the one demanding we needed to give this relationship a go, but I suppose pregnancy has made me protective. We have another whole person to consider, and I want to do what’s best for him. Or her. We haven’t found out yet. We both want it to be a surprise, and we’re so bloody excited.
And terrified.
While I’m not exactly loving pregnancy, I am loving this time. And yes, I am loving Greg.
How can I not?
I struggle out of my coat as Greg comes up behind me, easing it from my shoulder before hanging it up. As always when he’s near me, he kisses me. Sometimes on the lips, sometimes on the cheek. Sometimes places . . . elsewhere. This time, he kisses me where my neck and shoulder meet as he whispers that I’m irresistible and I smell like summer.
‘I will be so pleased when I can dress myself again,’ I grumble as he pulls away. I don’t feel very irresistible. I feel like a whale.
‘What? I thought I made a braw lady’s maid.’
‘I’m sure a lady’s maid doesn’t touch quite so much,’ I retort, waddling along the hall to the bathroom.
‘Come on, there has to be some perks of the job!’
